It was a great week for me. Opening up to collaborations has been a great boon to my idea production and eased up the isolation of writing. It is definitely time to publish more e-books and some physical ones as well.
I got a lot accomplished in my writerly world and connected with some fascinating characters -- both real and imaginary.
I continued to observe the oddities around me in this glorious circus we call a city. I added a classical music soundtrack to Times Square and walked around to observe tourists who are unaware of how this place has morphed into the new Coney Island replete with strange items, which people consume as if they were food -- giant lollipops, cotton candy, peanuts fried in honey and sugar and plenty of technology stores with the proverbial going out of business sign, which have been up for years at the same stores.
Working with people I love because of their endless creativity and determination is a great reward for my own dedication to the craft of writing. I'm patting myself on the back right now. And nothing ever deters me from writing -- neither snow, nor sleet, etc.
I will be interviewing the Puerto Rican poet/performer/playwright Tato Laviera tonight and the social analyst and comedian Chris Rock for the Latino Rebels, a group of which I'm proud to be a part and we have many great projects in the works but they're hush hush. Say no more.
Existential and meaningless observations
Creativity. What it is ...what it is ...what it is
Creativity is an odd thing and I wonder if some are incapable of being creative or if it is a matter of some genes missing or some genes you never tried on. Listening to a person tell a story recently in a monotone drone of a voice with an occasional higher pitch possibly meant to startle listeners awake, I drifted. I relocated to a deserted island, and there, on the sand, I sat in a slightly frayed white sundress with makeshift pick in hand opening my first coconut of the day -- prepared to make the most of it: drink the coconut water and use the pulp to make candy once I could find a stove and convert it from electric to solar-powered. Just as I was about to take my first sip from the coconut, the talker's voice made the last descent, a dip in tone to announce the punch line or point of the story was here at last. I squatted on the sand of my imaginary island, imaginary coconut in hand, and waited. The end was as dull as the telling.
Why was the story boring?
There were no interesting details or events -- a lot of 'he said,' 'she said,' 'and then.'
It was just an attempt to keep my gaze fixed on him.
In winter, it's the commoners portal and in summer, Dante's Inferno
We can thank the MTA for the daily inexplicable stench, wildly varying temperatures and the early morning commute in which the guy next to you may be dressed in a hefty bag and emitting the heavy perfume of excrement, urine and untended to old wounds. In an attempt to keep the homeless from sleeping on trains overnight, the MTA turns up the air conditioning and the homeless wear more hefty bags.
God's interior decorators and the tunnels of life
The Pray sticker is situated in a place that makes you wonder how it got there -- right in the middle of the wall behind the train.
Did someone wait for the train to stop between stations to dangle between and slap it on?
Was it during the slow overnight hours when trains rarely pass when someone had the guts, nerve or was crazy enough to climb onto the tracks?
A group of tourists jerk their heads to the left to see where the most lethargic version of Great Balls of Fire is coming from?
I walk quickly through the Dante's Inferno tunnel --boiling hot in summer and gulag-cold in winter, and there on his morning shift, stands the Black guitarist in a dashiki who does atonal renditions of Beatles songs six days a week or maybe seven. He smiles at everyone and people sing along - trying to show him, in a gentle way, what the songs would sound like in the right key.
Everyone is patient today with each other's rendition of life.